In that instant as he raised his eyes, Wen Chaosheng’s thoughts suddenly froze solid.
The makeup amplified Xi Zhui’s innate facial advantages. The sharp chill between his brows flickered in and out of view, and his contours looked like the work of a master’s chisel. The impact was a thousand times more devastating than his usual bare-faced self.
Even a plain white shirt splashed with blue doodles fit him like it was made for the role.
The monitor screen glowed steadily, its light refracting onto Wen Chaosheng’s glasses. The figure before him seemed both sharply defined and hazy, suspended somewhere between reality and illusion.
It was Xi Zhui—and also Tang Yu, the character born from him in the script.
Spotting Wen Chaosheng’s obvious daze, Xi Zhui felt that faint, misplaced twinge of sourness in his chest vanish in a flash. “Director?”
He came to a halt in front of the monitor, asking a question he already knew the answer to. “Is there something wrong with my makeup?”
“Ah? No.”
Wen Chaosheng realized he’d been staring too long and hurriedly adjusted his glasses to mask it. “It looks great.”
Xi Zhui gave a faint smile, smoothly steering the conversation. “I don’t usually wear makeup, so it’s still a bit unfamiliar. But you’re the director—if you think it suits the role in the script, then it’s good.”
“Yes, it suits perfectly.”
Wen Chaosheng nodded emphatically. “Xi Zhui, you look really good like this.”
Xi Zhui smiled again, then casually glanced at the unfamiliar Nobu. “What were you two talking about earlier?”
Oblivious to the scrutiny, Nobu replied, “Brother was telling me about movies.”
Wen Chaosheng chimed in. “Nobu’s really interested in how films are made, so I gave him a quick overview.”
“Is that so?” Xi Zhui raised an eyebrow, noncommittal, then turned abruptly to Nobu. “Doesn’t your sister seem to be looking for you?”
“Ah?”
Taking it at face value, Nobu scrambled to his feet from the low stool, but he didn’t forget to call back to Wen Chaosheng. “Brother, I’ll come find you later!”
“Eh…”
Wen Chaosheng watched his back as he dashed away. “He’s running so fast—he might trip.”
With the spot beside Wen Chaosheng now vacant, Xi Zhui slid right into it. “You’re awfully concerned about him. Kids his age have tough skin; a fall wouldn’t hurt him a bit.”
Missing the implication entirely, Wen Chaosheng murmured, “There are data cables and power cords all over the ground.”
“What if he trips and pulls down some equipment? It’s all so expensive.”
The gear had been borrowed from the Cultural and Tourism Bureau. If they sold off the entire crew, they still couldn’t cover the cost.
Xi Zhui hadn’t expected that to be his worry and let out an involuntary chuckle.
Wen Chaosheng tilted his head. “What are you laughing at?”
Xi Zhui shook it off. “Nothing.”
“…”
He’d clearly laughed, but he wouldn’t own up to it.
Before Wen Chaosheng could press further, Lin Keyang approached with their lunches. “Chaosheng, Xi Zhui—perfect timing, you’re both right here. Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Grab more if you run out.”
Prices in Gannan were low, so the crew’s boxed meals were generous: two meats, two vegetables, and a side of rice.
Wen Chaosheng didn’t have much of an appetite and ate slowly. It took him a good while before he finally set down his chopsticks.
Xi Zhui had polished off his meal ages ago. His gaze settled on the untouched braised pork in Wen Chaosheng’s box. “Not eating the meat?”
Wen Chaosheng replied simply, “I’m full.”
Truth be told, he disliked the fatty bits in braised pork—they looked too greasy, so he hadn’t touched a single piece.
Aware of his picky eating, Wen Chaosheng gazed apologetically at the glistening braised pork: Sorry—
He hadn’t even finished his habitual silent apology when Xi Zhui spoke up, as if reading his mind. “No need to mutter ‘sorry, braised pork’ under your breath today?”
“…”
His private ritual exposed, Wen Chaosheng froze.
It was a habit from childhood—apologizing aloud to any food he couldn’t finish. Once he realized how childish it seemed, he’d shifted to whispering it in his head.
Wen Chaosheng hadn’t imagined Xi Zhui would still remember something like that.
But they weren’t children anymore. He didn’t expect Xi Zhui to take his leftovers, and he certainly didn’t want to come off as wasteful.
Stubborn as ever, Wen Chaosheng insisted, “I’ll finish it. No rush—I’ll eat slowly.”
“If you can’t manage it, don’t force yourself.” Xi Zhui had seen right through him. He reached for his own chopsticks on instinct. “You haven’t touched it anyway, so I could just…”
A brighter voice cut him off before he could finish. “Brother! Have you eaten yet?”
Nobu came dashing over from nearby, one hand cradling his unopened lunch box, the other clutching a small plastic bag.
He leaned in close to Wen Chaosheng and proudly unzipped the bag. “Brother, this is some sun-dried yak jerky. It’s delicious—for you!”
“…”
Brother this, brother that.
They’d only met today—how had he gotten so chummy already?
Seeing Nobu beaming at Wen Chaosheng, Xi Zhui’s gaze darkened imperceptibly.
Oblivious to the shift beside him, Wen Chaosheng told Nobu, “Thanks, but I’ve pretty much finished eating.”
Nobu spotted the braised pork in his box and pointed. “Brother, you not eating this?”
Wen Chaosheng had been wondering what to do with it. “Want it? I never touched it with my chopsticks—it’s all clean.”
“Yeah!” Undeterred, Nobu thrust the bag of jerky into Wen Chaosheng’s hands. “Let’s trade!”
Wen Chaosheng’s lips curved up. “Sure.”
“…”
Nobu had come running and left just as fast, lunch box tucked away.
Relieved not to waste the meat, Wen Chaosheng cleared his disposable box with a lighter heart.
He offered the freshly acquired yak jerky to Xi Zhui. “Xi Zhui, want to try some? I hear the yak jerky from Gannan is especially good.”
“No thanks—I’m full.”
Xi Zhui brushed it off coolly, dropped his chopsticks onto his empty box, and rose to his feet.
Wen Chaosheng looked up at him, half a piece of jerky already in his mouth. “Where are you headed?”
“To toss the trash.” Xi Zhui scooped up his own box stone-faced, then grabbed Wen Chaosheng’s takeout container as well. “You keep eating.”
“Mm, thanks.”
Wen Chaosheng watched his retreating back, a vague sense that something was off nagging at him, though he couldn’t put his finger on it.
…
Thanks to Xi Zhui’s perfect fit for the look and the light dialogue load, his two afternoon scenes wrapped smoothly.
At three in the afternoon, the crew relocated to a temple just outside the county. The place had over a century of history and normally barred outsiders and tour groups.
The Cultural and Tourism Bureau had smoothed things over in advance. After laying down a few ground rules, the temple had cleared some space and permitted them to film.
Wen Chaosheng and Sun Xuan had scouted it beforehand. Gazing at the sunlight cascading from the prayer flags on the high platform, he opted for pure natural light in this scene.
The crew was hustling to nail the perfect shooting angle. Natural light wouldn’t last forever—they had to wrap before the sun dipped below the horizon.
Xi Zhui watched Wen Chaosheng darting about without interrupting. Instead, he focused intently on running lines in his head.
Bzzz.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Xi Zhui pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Frowning in mild surprise at the message, he set his script aside and tapped out a quick reply.
A moment later, Wen Chaosheng returned. “Xi Zhui, need me to go over this scene again?”
Still glued to his phone, Xi Zhui responded a beat late. “Hm? No need—I know what I’m doing. Aren’t we pressed for time? Let’s just block it out and roll.”
This was the male lead’s solo scene from the latter half of the script.
Before departing Gannan, Tang Yu made a special trip to the temple Yang Jin had once mentioned. There, on a towering platform strung with prayer flags, the banners rustled in the wind. Every fluttering swath of color embodied the earnest prayers of countless souls across the world.
For love. For everything.
The old Tang Yu had been a staunch atheist, convinced no gods or Buddhas graced this land.
Yet here he was, willingly lingering on Gannan’s soil. He stood before the sea of whipping flags, beseeching with utter devotion for the well-being of the girl he’d crossed paths with so briefly—yet could never truly hold.
Little did he know, she had already tumbled into the vortex of cruel fate.
The scene demanded no excess dialogue—just the lead actor’s face and eyes to convey the depths of inner emotion.
Not overly complex, but far from easy.
Ever since they’d started sharing a place, they’d carved out time each night to pore over the script and dissect the characters together.
Wen Chaosheng had full faith in Xi Zhui’s grasp. “Alright, let’s block the positions then.”
“Sure.”
…
Ten minutes later, the clapper snapped.
“Action!”
Twilight rays slanted into the secluded Tibetan temple, where few ever set foot.
Vibrant prayer flags dangled from ropes strung high overhead, thrashing and clattering in the howling highland gale, their shadows dancing and shifting below.
Beneath them stood Xi Zhui, silently portraying the male lead.
The camera crept closer—and abruptly, a voice cut through from the other side. “Cut! That’s no good!”
“…”
The carefully built emotion shattered in an instant.
Xi Zhui glanced toward Wen Chaosheng in silent query. Sun Xuan, manning the camera, asked aloud, “Director, what’s up?”
“The light’s shifted from our blocking,” Wen Chaosheng explained through the megaphone, nitpicking every detail that could affect the texture. “Xi Zhui, Sun Xuan—shift your positions back a touch and run it again.”
Xi Zhui flashed an OK sign and adjusted alongside the camera team.
Moments later, the clapper rang out once more.
But not even ten seconds in, a jarring phone vibration erupted.
“…”
Xi Zhui raised a hand in apology. “Sorry—my bad.”
He fished the phone from his pocket. An incoming call blinked on the screen.
Sun Xuan glanced at the distant Wen Chaosheng before asking Xi Zhui, “Should you get that?”
Xi Zhui killed the call in a flash, unwilling to burn the crew’s time. “Nah—let’s stay on schedule and reset.”
They repositioned and dove back in, but the highland wind decided to toy with them again—
Halfway through, a single stray lock of Xi Zhui’s hair whipped loose, perfectly obstructing a sliver of his eye.
Wen Chaosheng’s perfectionism kicked in hard. With no choice, he called cut yet again.
“…”
The hard-won immersion froze solid once more. Xi Zhui let out a barely audible sigh, the wind now giving him a headache.
Lin Keyang, ever the quick-thinking assistant director, jumped in. “Mei Duo, go fix the male lead’s hair right now.”
“Got it.”
Wen Chaosheng stared at the footage streaming in from the monitor’s top right corner, a growing sense of urgency tightening in his chest.
He frowned. “The light’s shifted again. We’ll need to tweak the positioning in a bit.”
Lin Keyang reassured him. “It’s fine. We knew chasing natural light would come with hiccups like this. The sun’s still got a ways to set, so let’s all take our time adjusting. No rush.”
Nobu, who was watching the shoot, had a keen eye for these things. He thoughtfully handed Wen Chaosheng a bottle of mineral water. “Here, Brother. Have some water.”
“Thanks.”
Wen Chaosheng took it but had no interest in drinking. His gaze drifted unconsciously toward Xi Zhui beyond the monitor.
In this brief lull between takes, Xi Zhui had pulled out his phone again. He was scrolling through something with his head down, looking distracted.
“…”
Wen Chaosheng watched the scene from in front of the monitor, a rare flicker of disapproval passing through his eyes behind his glasses.
Lin Keyang noticed it too. She patted Wen Chaosheng’s shoulder first, then walked over to Xi Zhui’s side.
She ventured carefully, “Xi Zhui, nothing urgent, right? How about I hold on to your phone for you?”
“…”
Xi Zhui caught her unspoken implication. His gaze slid past her to Wen Chaosheng in the back.
After a moment’s hesitation, he politely declined. “Sorry, I’m not used to handing my phone over to others. Don’t worry—it’s on silent. It won’t disrupt the shoot.”
Lin Keyang didn’t press. “Alright then.”
Two minutes later, Mei Duo finished touching up her makeup and called out, “Director, we’re good to go.”
Wen Chaosheng tamped down his stray thoughts. He picked up the megaphone and directed them to adjust their positions again. Once he confirmed the new lighting looked right, he launched into the scene’s fourth take with brisk efficiency—
The sunset’s lingering glow filtered through the fluttering prayer flags, casting a soft, almost compassionate warmth across Xi Zhui’s face. Tiny flickers of light and shadow danced over his skin, lending it an incredibly lifelike texture.
Following the script, Xi Zhui gazed quietly at the sky beyond the flags. His eyes held the character’s required longing, but it lacked depth.
Behind the monitor, Wen Chaosheng’s eyes—hidden behind his glasses—watched with unusual scrutiny.
He waited seven or eight seconds. Seeing no deeper emotion emerge from Xi Zhui on camera, he called cut without mercy. “Cut! Redo it. That wasn’t right.”
“…”
A flash of frustration crossed Xi Zhui’s features at the rejection, but he didn’t snap. Braving the relentless chill of the wind whipping around them, he said patiently, “Okay. I’ll adjust my emotions. Let’s go again.”
Unfortunately, the shoot proved even tougher than they’d anticipated—
In the next four or five takes, they were either hampered by the environment and shifting light, or Xi Zhui faltered in his grasp of the role. One cut after another ruined the attempts.
By the tenth “Cut!”, Xi Zhui’s expression finally darkened.
Precious filming time was slipping away bit by bit, and Director Wen still wasn’t satisfied with anything. Xi Zhui had never felt so frustrated by a single task in his life!
His face taut, Xi Zhui strode back to the monitor. It was a question laced with self-doubt. “What was wrong that time? Director, what exactly do you want me to do?”
“…”
Wen Chaosheng sensed the barely restrained emotion in his voice. He studied Xi Zhui with intense focus.
After a moment of silence, he set down the megaphone and stated clearly, “That’s a wrap for today. We’re done shooting.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an uncharacteristic calm resolve. “You’re not in the right state for this, and besides…”
To Xi Zhui’s ears, it sounded like a public rejection. “And besides what?”
A crack finally split his composure, revealing the spoiled young master buried inside. “Is it that I just can’t nail it today? Or does Director Wen already think I’m not up to the role?”
“…”
“If it’s the latter, I’d suggest Director Wen recast me now. It’s only the first day of filming—no real delay for the crew.”
